


After the wedding

by noidea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sexual Fantasy, Suicidal Thoughts, kind of, mentions of drug use, post tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noidea/pseuds/noidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John’s wedding Sherlock returns to empty Baker Street. No longer able to suppress his feelings, he is finally forced to acknowledge their existence and deal with them.<br/>Major angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for Anna (painlock), the queen of angst and pininglock. Thank you for making me laugh and for inspiring me. Sorry for being 500 years late. ;)
> 
> I am not a native speaker and I make a lot of mistakes, so if there is anyone kind enough (and brave) to face this thing and beta it, I would be forever grateful. I am not offering my firstborn only because I don’t want to load you with even more work.

After all day filled with noise and people Baker Street appeared eerily silent. Sherlock stood in the middle of living room, hesitant what he’ s supposed to do next. He felt detached as if he were just a mere observer of his own life. His whole body felt foreign, overcome with daunting numbness and hollowed.

Absent-mindedly he slipped off his coat and hung it on the hook. Then he slowly proceeded to the bedroom to discard his wedding uniform. The battle was over. He had lost. Suddenly he felt the rising urge to burn this hateful ensemble. As if the sight of flames consuming clothes would somehow bring him desired relief.

Treacherous dregs of something unknown, unintelligible began spreading through his veins. Brooding, crawling under his skin. To shake away an unpleasant sensation Sherlock slammed his fist into the wardrobe’s door. Searing pain. He wanted to scream, to growl, to destroy something. Anything. Wracking force inside him teased his nerves relentlessly.

He pulled sharply at his hair in order to distract himself. How could surroundings remain so unnervingly still when there were shards tearing him inside? Defeated, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed and rolled on his back. The evaluation of his condition was required. Tachycardia. Hyperventilation. Enervation. High level of anxiety? Cortisol. Focus. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Locate the source of pain.Oh.

There’s a massive black hole in a place of his heart sucking in his insides… He could sense organs being ripped from their destined cavities. Profound internal bleeding would explain the excruciating agony he had been experiencing. This also must have been the reason his chest felt disturbingly heavy.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he gasped in shock. The Woman. The Woman was lying on top of him. Naked. Unyielding.  Despite the fact that her blood-red lips were pulled into smile, her eyes remained sad. She traced his cheekbone with a thumb echoing seductively his own words.

_A chemical defect found in a losing side._

He clenched his eyes shut. When he reopened them, the Woman was gone, but the pressure on his chest did not lessen. Simple chemical defect cannot hold such power. Cause that much damage. Impossible. There was this strange thickness in his throat, his nose burnt… Few hot tears rolled down his face. Baffled, he wiped them away with the back of his hands.  

Calm down and regain control. Control is the key. Control it. Contain it. Lock it.

Maniacal laugh and shrieks filled his ears. Red dots blinding him. The sense of falling as violent as those that sometimes jerked him awake while falling asleep. The sound of coat flapping in the wind. Bursts of cold air hitting his face. John’s horrified, desperate _Sherlock_! Raw fear. For John’s life.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Was this what burnt out heart felt like? Did Moriarty finally fulfill his threat? No. This sensation felt more like sharp daggers rather than flames. He should know, he had experienced both. Blades ruthlessly twisting, shredding remains of the muscle tissue.

_It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right._

During his exile memories of John had brought him relief. They’d distanced him from the pain of torture. Ironically enough now they inflicted even greater suffer.

Blurred edges, vision swaying. World so warm and pleasant. Familiar, calming smell of Baker Street. John’s sweaty hand on his knee.

_I don’t mind._

_Any time._

A treacherous prick of hope in his heart. He remembered well how at that exact moment his mind had instantly fired several scenarios how the events of the stag night might have unfolded.

Too late. The moment had passed leaving him with nothing but gnawing disappointment somewhere deep in his chest.

Was John with Mary now? Were they together giggling in their hotel room? Was Mary kissing John? Slipping her hand into his trousers, tugging at his shirt, helping him to get undressed. Her mouth on his lips, neck, his chest, going lower…  Did she make him groan in pleasure? Or were they just lying in bed entwined, too exhausted to consume their marriage?

Sherlock winced at the images his mind supplied.

He envied Mary. He detested the fact that she was allowed to see John in his most vulnerable. Undone and wanton. And so deliciously debauched. He wanted to slam John against the wall and pin his hands above his head. To explore his mouth and bite his lips, to swallow him and tease him with his tongue, and to make him beg. Sherlock wanted to take John apart, piece by piece. To make him scream and finally unveil his most intimate layer. To study John’s face while he lost himself in pleasure. Or seconds before, when he’s on the verge, writhing desperately. He wanted to be the reason John moaned. He would catalogue John’s reactions to various stimuli in order to improve the experience. He would learn his smell and taste, and observe how they changed once tinted with arousal. He would analyze the chemistry of John’s orgasm. Test his blood composition. Perhaps study his brain activity during climax.

_Not good?_

Sometimes he burnt with desire to take John roughly, against the wall or kitchen table, while he scrambled for purchase. All nails and teeth in adrenaline haze. Pain mixing with pleasure to the accompaniment of their panting and groans. But other times he wanted to take John slowly, lazily, in bed, while they laughed off their inexperience and shared tender kisses until under the heat and pressure they would melt into one. Fingers intertwined.

Too many. Too many emotions. Bursting. Unbearable. Heart thumping fiercely.

He should have died on that day. He should have fall and properly crushed to death on that fucking pavement. Not being clever. No cheap tricks, no faking. The real sacrifice. John would have held his hand until his last breath.

No.

He had to stay alive. For John. He had to protect John and his family. He had made a vow. The most important vow in his life. He would guard John and… Mary… and their children.   _Always._

He would not allow his useless and unrequited feelings to overpower his intents.

In truth, it was better this way. Better for John. He quite accurately had compared Sherlock to the drug on his blog.  It was all he ever was. He had nothing to offer beside an instant adrenaline rush and ridiculous adventures. In the end he would only hurt John. And disappoint him. Oh how he hated himself for not being able to provide John with everything he needed and deserved. But after all he was just a freak. A high functioning sociopath.  

_You machine._

“Oh, Sherlock” Mycroft exhaled with pity.

Sherlock gasped as if he'd just broken into air and out of water. How could he have missed his annoying brother’s footsteps? After all, the man weighed nearly as much as an elephant.

It appeared that his current condition had significantly impaired his observational skills. Unacceptable.

“Go away, Mycroft. I am fine,” he snarled rolling on his side, away from the intruder. Unusually hoarse voice betrayed his real state. He despised that his always collected brother saw him like this. Weak and pathetic. Exposed. He needed to be alone.

“Clearly,” Mycroft muttered sarcastically.

Exasperate growl escaped Sherlock’s lips. Most definitely he would not tolerate his brother’s obnoxious presence in his own bedroom.

Sherlock bolted upright and stormed into the living room past Mycroft, who followed him calmly.

“What exactly is the purpose of this uncalled-for visit?” Sherlock asked belligerently.

Tilting his head Mycroft raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Oh for God’s sake! I am clean! I didn’t even smoke,” Sherlock assured in aggravation, automatically rolling up his sleeves to emphasize the statement.  It was infuriating. And frankly dull. Why was he always accused of being so predictable?

“Old habits die hard, dear brother. You cannot possibly blame me for taking too much precaution.”

 “Did you come here to gloat?” Sherlock leaned in narrowing his eyes suspiciously. There was this unsettling buzzing just under his skin. As if all his nerves were strained, on the verge of bursting. Just one word to trigger the explosion.  

“Indeed. My sole purpose in life is to feed on your misery,” Mycroft’s tone was heavily dripping in sarcasm. But there was also a flicker of hurt on his face.

“Seems about right.”

“Have you ever considered that I might actually worry about you?”

“Never crossed my mind,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

“I did warn you, Sherlock. Do not get involved. Not surprisingly, as ever, you elected to ignore my words,” Mycroft’s tone suggested he’s dealing with a petulant child rather than an adult.

“Don’t you dare…” Sherlock stuck out a warning hand at the man. “It was not my wish. I did not choose to get involved. I… I can’t…” he let out a shaken breath. Why was this so exhausting? He dropped his head into hands in order to compose himself.

 “Sherlock, you cannot proceed in that manner,” stated Mycroft sounding as if he were trying to be very careful.

Momentarily Sherlock glared at him daring to say more.

“This will destroy you,” Mycroft supplied softly. This time he’d let his usual mask of indifference slipped. Genuine concern creased his features.

Sherlock burst into laughter. Even he was frightened by the hollow sound of it.

“Destroy me?! I’m alive because of him! How do you think I survived all this torture you had subjected me to? All these months…” he winced at painful memories. “I did this all for him. To keep him safe. And now… ” his voice faltered.

What if he hadn’t jumped and left John? Would they be still living together on Baker Street, solving crimes and chasing criminals? Perhaps they could be even something more than just… friends? Stupid, useless thoughts. It was all lost since the moment he had agreed to Mycroft’s plan.

Mycroft’s plan…

Oh. Sudden realization dawned on Sherlock. It’s was all Mycroft’s doing. How could he have missed it? It was obvious. Since the beginning Mycroft had been attempting to scare John away. To separate John from Sherlock.

“It’s your fault,” Sherlock pointed accusingly at his stunned brother. “Admit it… you were jealous,” he continued. His tone dangerously playful.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft frowned in confusion.

“You were jealous of me and John.”

“This is preposterous. I know you are in pain, Sherlock, but…”

“You’ve never had any friends. Because no one would willingly spend their time with you,” Sherlock was aware he was being unnecessary cruel, but that was the purpose. His words were meant to bring suffer. “You want me to be as miserable as you are. “

Mycroft’s face became unreadable once again. It was maddening how calmly he accepted insults.

Sherlock wanted to tear off this perfectly crafted façade. Determined to elicit some reaction he launched at Mycroft. Fists clenched ready to punch, to hurt. However, he had not foreseen how quick his brother could be. Or perhaps he was too weakened by his state of mind.

Mycroft instantly caught his wrists in iron grip. Sherlock struggled but to no avail. There was no fight left in him. All the emotions evaporated leaving him empty and numb. He could sense muscles loosening and his trembling legs were no longer able to hold him. Shattered he sank to his knees. Seeing that Mycroft released his hands.

He felt nothing. He was nothing. Pathetic creature at his older brother’s feet.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“If you were inclined to discuss your condition with a specialist... I could have it arranged,” he prompted carefully.

Sherlock barely shook his head, unsure if Mycroft even registered the motion. Nevertheless, he awkwardly patted his shoulder in a weak attempt at consolation.

“I am truly sorry, Sherlock.”

*

Two weeks later he found a solution. A seven percent one to be precise. It blunted the edges reducing sharp pain to dull ache deep inside him. Obviously it’s just for the case. After all, drug addiction was his only weakness.


End file.
